Monday, October 08, 2007

This is the fourth letter I've been compelled to write to Drew Brees. Another lousy week, another letter to my quarterback. As in all aspects of my life, when you deal with me, and you don't meet my high expectations, you can expect a letter. And sometimes, it may even be stern in tone. Be forewarned. Do not end up like my fantasy football quarterback.

Dear Drew,

Sometimes, I think back to December 10th of last year. The fearsome Dallas Cowboys would be your enemies on that day. The breeze, a gentle westerly wind, yet just enough to make your hair flitter as you stood on the field during pre-game warm-ups. Perfect weather for a good 'ol ball game, you thought. Their defensive lineman are very big and strong, you also thought. Their defensive backs also look strong, but not as big as the lineman, you concluded. That's really all you had going through your mind. You were at ease on that day. "Cool Brees", I giggled, as you took the field.

384 passing yards, and 5 touchdown throws later, you were on top of the world. And my fantasy team was absolutely dominant for yet another week.

And occasionally, I still reminisce about November 5th 2006, against Tampa Bay. 314 yards, 3 touchdown passes, zero interceptions. Yet another flawless performance.

Drew, I don't want to live in the past any longer.

I think you're a nice person. Really I do. You appeared in an ESPN commercial recently where you try to drive a Mardi Gras float into a parking lot, but get stuck. It's funny. And cute. I've heard that you donate your time and money to charities in the New Orleans area, or something like that. And that's really great.....for people in New Orleans. What about the rest of us?

I just don't think I can do it anymore, Drew. Maybe we've grown apart since last season. I no longer feel the same excitement when I see the score of one of your games. I almost dread the chance to watch you play if the Saints happen to be on national TV, or you're playing against one of the local teams. It's horribly painful. A pain I can't bear. One I shouldn't have to bear. Who in the hell do you think you are? ONE lousy touchdown and NINE interceptions through five games this year? Are you kidding me? This is bullshit.

I'm sorry Drew. That wasn't me talking. That was my anger. I have to let it out. And you need to understand how you've made me feel this season. Yet another agonizingly poor performance this week. Two more interceptions. Zero more touchdowns. I need you to understand where I'm coming from. I need you to see what you've done to me:

I'm sad because of you, Drew Brees. That clock in the background is counting down....to the end of this relationship.

I look pretty sad, right? Well it looks pretty bad on the inside as well. That's because you're killing me. Slowly. Having you on my team has been a disaster. Unrelenting. Unrelieved. Clear-cut. Intense. Unabridged. Unabated. Thorough. Complete. In case you hadn't guessed, I have the thesaurus lying open - tear-stained, cheez-whiz and ketchup obscuring a few synonyms - but opened to the word "unmitigated". Because that's the kind of disaster we've witnessed from you this season.

Dear Drew, I can't keep on with this kind of relationship. All I do is give and give. Start you week after rueful week. And what do I get in return? A shoe-full of dog crap. Or at least that's how it feels. And smells. My point is that this relationship really stinks right now. But you gave me so much last year, and it was such a wonderful surprise. I put my faith in your resurrection, and I drafted you so highly this year. All of which makes this breakup that much harder.

I still want to be able to call you - and bring you back to the starting lineup if you can manage to right your sinking submarine. And I'll keep you on the bench, so that you're never too far away. But I can't and I won't start you next week. Or the week after. Or the one after that. It's too much anguish. I don't think we'll ever go back to what we had before. In some small way, perhaps I blame myself. Maybe I pressured you too much. You weren't ready to take the next step, to Fantasy Football superstardom. And for that, I'm sorry.

Finally Drew, I want you to remember one thing: It's not you, it's me.

1 comment:

I love the photo and I had a feeling Brees was going to early in the draft. If I was working with you earlier, I would have told you to stay away from Brees. Then again, I drafted Kitna, so what do I know?

About Me

"I Am The Mill" has been conceived by, and written from, the brain of Scott Rathmill. "The Mill" is Scott's nickname. Or at least he'd like to believe that he's cool enough to have a nickname of some sort. And the name "Scotty Potty" has grown tiresome over the years. He tries to get various people to call him "The Mill" or just "Mill", and hopes to someday have strangers on the street shouting "Hey Mill, what's up?" Or "Yo Mill, your blog blows!" Really, any sort of recognition would do.